12.15, Avalon Stage

And down comes the rain, barely an hour and a half into the festival proper. Taking shelter in the Avalon Tent I have the misfortune to witness THE FABRICS. At first I’m prepared to be charitable – after all, the friend of a friend is playing guitar – but it soon becomes clear that all diplomacy and tact will have to be jettisoned. They are shite. Individual members of the band may well be talented (especially the drummer), but the end product is an unholy, gruesome, free-jazz-funk slop. The saxophonist has got a goatee and a leather waistcoat, for fuck’s sake. Although The Fabrics make me feel quite nauseous, in a way I owe them a debt of gratitude – their performance serves as a reminder of the dangers of straying from the main music stages in search of what dewy-eyed hippies are inclined to call “the real Glastonbury”. This is it, my friends, and it fucking stinks. I vow never to venture so afar astray again.